“Ingenious,” Austin said with a chuckle. “If you stuck a big facility out here in the boonies, everyone, like our fisherman friend back there, would talk about it. But put it in plain sight, invite the public to come tramping in and out every day, and you've got an unbeatable cover for some kind of clandestine operation.”

Zavala borrowed the binoculars and scanned the opposite cliff. “Why a waterproof elevator?”

“I don't have an answer,” Austin said with a shake of his head. “I think we've seen all we're going to see.”

Hoping to detect signs of activity around the building or cliff, they lingered a few more minutes, but the only movement they saw was the soaring sea birds. They headed away from the sea and minutes later were crawling under the fence. Zavala would have liked to ask the fisherman if he knew about the elevator or whether he had seen anything unusual in the lagoon, but the man had taken his money and run. They got back into the pickup and headed north.

Austin drove without talking. Zavala knew from past experience that his partner was chewing over a plan and when he had it fully formulated he would spill the details. Just beyond Ensenada, Austin said, “Is NUMA still running those field tests off San Diego?”

“As far as I know. I was planning to check in after the race to see how things were going.”

Austin nodded. During the drive back they exchanged small talk, trading war stories about past adventures and youthful indiscretions in Mexico. The long line of traffic at the border crossing was moving at a snail's pace. They flashed their NUMA IDs to save time and were whisked through customs. Back in San Diego they headed toward the bay until they came to a sprawling municipal marina. They parked and made their way along a pier past dozens of sail- and power boats. At the end of a dock reserved for larger craft they found a stubby, wide-beamed vessel about eighty-five feet long. Painted in white on the greenish-blue hull were the letters “NUMA.”

They stepped across the catwalk and asked one of the crew men puttering on the deck if the captain were aboard. He led the way to the bridge, where a slim, olive-skinned man was going over some charts. Jim Contos was considered one of the best skippers in the NUMA fleet. The son of a Tarpon Springs sponge fisher man, he had been on boats since he was able to walk.

“Kurt. Joe,” Contos said with a wide grin. “What a nice surprise! I heard you were in the neighborhood, but I never suspected you'd honor the Sea Robin with a visit. What are you up to?” He glanced at Zavala. “Well, I always know what you've been up to.”

Zavala's lips turned up in his typical slight smile. “Kurt and I were in the offshore boat race yesterday.”

A dark cloud crossed his brow. “Hey, I heard about that thing with your boat. I'm really sorry about that.”